The Horizon Project
by Snownut
Summary: In 1991, scientists discovered a rogue neutron star on a destructive course toward Earth. Humanity's only hope for survival is the starship Orion and those chosen to leave. Dr. Gregory House has been tasked with developing a team capable of diagnosing and treating probable new xenobiologic diseases on their journey. House/Wilson. Possible House/Cuddy. In the end, House must choose.


AN: If you're reading this, I have no idea where this one came from. It hit me out of the blue while watching National Geographic's _Evacuate Earth_ on Netflix_._  
Yes, it's a House-in-space story. And yes, I borrowed most of their techno-babble regarding a neutron star, and how to save humanity. I'm neither an astrophysicist nor a doctor. *pauses*  
You didn't know about this genre? Yeah, I didn't either. In fact, I've never seen a House-in-space story, so this might be a first. 'Tho if anyone knows of another one, let me know! Set after the infarction, and within my own stories just before the events in _One Day_, and takes off from there—from prequel with references to different parts of the series. Go big, or go home, right? Right?!

The Horizon Project 

December, 2001

It was dark. Only the light from the TV lit his steps as he rose stiffly from the couch and stumbled sleepily down the hallway to House's room, silently grateful for the nightlight he'd installed the day before when House had come home from the hospital. He'd considered getting a baby monitor too—so he'd be able to hear if House needed anything—but hadn't been able to bring himself to do it. Even in his current condition, House wasn't quite helpless. He was as Wilson had left him—lying on his back with his leg propped in a nest of pillows. A therapeutic one supported his leg in place at a neutral angle, preventing House from trying to roll over his sleep. His previous attempts to shift position had left him keening in agony and had sent nurses running for IM morphine.  
House might have been home, but he wasn't able to live independently as of yet. The surgical site extended from near his hip and ended just above his knee—measuring over 16 inches long, nearly 5 inches wide and 1-2 inches deep. The wound was still wide open and would be for a very long time until it healed from the inside out. Simpson had elected to use a wet-to-dry dressing, packed the length of the leg along with two penrose drains placed in the largest section of debrided muscle. Surgical tape and gauze had been layered over the limb lightly—to allow the site to breathe, but protect it from external contaminants. The dressing had to be changed twice a day; the entire leg unwrapped and redressed. The drains checked and documented. House'd come home in a wheelchair, but was unable to transfer independently. Basic self-care eluded him at present; he was reliant on Wilson for everything from using the toilet to using the shower. So far, he had shown zero interest in food, only eating when ordered to do so. He'd eaten half a triangle of toast and three slices of banana under duress, but hadn't expressed an interest in anything on his own. Luckily, he was still receiving TPN during his daily sessions at the hospital. Gaunt, sallow and slightly yellow from his resolving jaundice, House was far from the picture of health. In the soft, clear light from the LED nightlight, he looked older than his years and Wilson sighed unhappily as he padded to his bedside. Sinking down on the chair he left by the bed, he pressed his fingers to House's wrist and began taking his vitals. Heart rate was normal. Aural thermometer showed a normal temp. He set the stethoscope pieces in his ear and was pleased when his auscultation was normal as well. He itched to percuss House's chest, but knew that even with the use of moderate narcotics—he'd only wake House for no real reason. He was medically stable, and that was truthfully all he needed to know at the moment.  
Sighing to himself, he scribbled his findings onto the notepad he left at House's bedside. Pushing the blankets aside for a moment, he let his fingers find the CVC port in House's jugular and was pleased to find the port was patent, with no sign of infection. He studied his sleeping friend fondly as he pulled the blankets back up. With any luck—House would sleep through the rest of the night without any problems. Almost unbidden, he smothered a yawn and rose stiffly once more. It was nearly two a.m., and he knew he should be getting himself to bed. House would be due for another dose of pain meds around seven, and he'd need to be to the hospital for dialysis by ten or so. Stumbling back down the hallway, he reclaimed his spot on the couch and took up the remote. He settled down into the nest of blankets he'd created for himself and watched absently; waiting for the blur of light and sound to lull him to sleep as it did so often these days. Closing his eyes, he let the dialogue wash over him and tried to will it into the white noise he needed. But their words permeated his thoughts until he finally gave up on sleep and let himself stare at the screen. He'd long been fascinated with the Horizon Project, the group of superbrains established to guide the building of the ship that would transport them to the stars, the selection of the people who would be allowed passage, and the plan to re-colonize a new planet—and hopefully establish a new civilization. He supposed it was only human to be interested in the entire morbid process.

_"…two miles wide and fifteen miles long, the Orion's design was based on what is known as the O'Neil cylinder. The Orion will be in the shape of a large cylinder, spinning slowly, which will create centrifugal force and will push the occupants to the outer edge. That acceleration will feel like gravity to those on board…"_

It was hard not to be intrigued by the program. Images of pristine, modern houses, neatly maintained walking paths and a park filled with happy children of all races lit the screen, which showed all of the above slowly rotating around within an enormous cylinder. The commentator continued to highlight several other components of the ship's design and construction that was taking place in the emptiness of space at that very moment. The ship had been named the _Orion_. The ship that would hopefully save the best of their species _Homo sapiens_ and allow their civilization to flourish on another world. A world not doomed by the arrival of a neutron star in the not-so-distant future.

_"…artificial lighting will be used to simulate a 24 hour day cycle that will mimic Earth's day/night cycle. A large rod will run down the center of the ship. These rhythms dictate heart rhythm, body temperature—and of course, will contribute to the ship's ecosystem. Much of the ship's interior will be devoted to housing the 250,000 people selected, although the remaining space will be used to grow a sustainable, renewable food source for what could be several centuries…"_

Wilson tried to remember a time when he had regarded living in space as something out of science fiction, but he had to admit the idea of it had become rather commonplace since the announcement of Earth's imminent destruction some ten years before. Living in space was agreeable, indeed, even desirable, considering Earth's ultimate fate in the coming years. He had tried not to concern himself with the frenzy gripping the world as the human genome sequence project had commenced.

"…_entire population is encouraged to submit their Evacuation Eligibility kit to be considered for placement on board the Orion. Ideal candidates will be found genetically free of hereditary diseases, documented to be free from mental illnesses, and have a valuable skill to contribute to the community on the ship…"  
_  
Like everyone else, he'd dutifully swabbed the inside of his cheek and submitted his Evacuation Eligibility kit for DNA testing. And like everyone else, he held onto a slim hope that he could be chosen for the program. Chosen to survive certain death. Some believed the lottery to be legitimate, and some believed the lottery to be fixed from the beginning. Racism, fascism, communism and just about every other –ism known to man was running rampant in society these days as frightened, ignorant people cast about for a way to survive—even to the detriment of those around them. Governments worldwide had declared martial law, freezing and controlling the prices for goods and commodities. Life had gone on in the way it had before, for most people in the United States. And yet, somehow, everything had changed. Wilson snuggled down into his blanket more deeply to chase away the gooseflesh that crept up his bare arms in the chill of wintry darkness. He turned the volume down once more, and closed his eyes. Breathing slowly, he let his awareness of the world fade until he felt the dark pressing in; the white noise scouring at his consciousness until he fell asleep at last.

oOo

Morning came as it always did in December. Weak, wintry light at the window was flat and gray in House's silent apartment. Wilson grunted painfully as he sat up slowly; his back ached and he did his best to stretch the kinks out as he sat up. Glancing at his watch, he was surprised to find it was just before eight a.m. He blinked in confusion as he checked the alarm to find it hadn't been set, and definitely hadn't gone off. He stared dully at the TV screen once more, trying to work out what had awakened him so abruptly when he heard House call weakly again from down the hall.  
"Wilson."  
He muttered a curse as he untangled the blanket from his legs and bolted stiffly down the hall. House's upper body was uncomfortably twisted sideways on the bed, the blankets askew. He'd tried to distance himself by turning at an angle to vomit, though somewhat unsuccessfully, as he was unable to roll back without moving his leg. Wilson shook himself into motion from where he'd stopped inside the doorway in dismay. House was trembling with pain and exertion. He'd been an hour without pain relief—unwilling or unable to rouse Wilson. He reached under the bed and withdrew the emergency pain kit he'd assembled; his fingers quickly dialed the locks and he removed the IM morphine, compazine and the needles he'd need for both. He drew up the morphine, pushed aside the waist band of House's boxer shorts and plunged the needle home into his buttocks.  
"Easy, House. Easy." he soothed. House's breathing had been almost agonal when he pushed the morphine, but within ten minutes had smoothed out as he began to relax with the drug. Wilson had given him enough to take the edge off, but hopefully not knock him out for the morning. He did have to get House to the hospital for his outpatient treatment. And House wouldn't thank him for another ambulance ride.  
"You all right?" he asked quietly, and House nodded against the pillow. His eyes were half-lidded, and Wilson decided to let him lie in bed for a while longer. "You feel any chest pain? Tachycardia? Nausea?"  
"No." House told him hoarsely. "Heart's okay."  
"Let me know about the nausea. I can give you some compazine."  
"Okay."  
House hadn't experienced any pain crises since he'd come home the day before, but Wilson could vividly recall his runs of tachycardia while he'd still been in the hospital. Even Morris had never really determined if the tachycardia was caused by the pain, or if the pain precipitated it. He seized House's wrist anxiously. His pulse, while fast, was certainly within his norms and more importantly, it was slowing. He put his stethoscope to House's chest and listened carefully. His heart beat was steady as well, with no murmur or other audible defect. House had sunk into sleep beneath the weight of the drug. His breathing was sleepy and slow, with none of the exertion of before. Only the sweat dampening his clothes and the puddle of vomit gave any indication of the crisis. Wilson shook his head sadly and stood, feeling the adrenaline ebb. He tugged the soiled blanket away from House and balled it up, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the smell as he carried down the hall and threw it into the washer. He dumped some soap into the machine and cranked the knobs before walking back to the linen closet and retrieving another blanket. He threw it over House and resisted the urge to re-check all of his vitals. House was breathing easily enough; he could see his chest rise and fall with each regular breath. Running a hand through his hair, he contemplated his next move. He'd taken a temporary leave of absence to help House out, so he was limited to a few office hours a couple of days a week—usually when he'd brought House in for his daily therapy. Unfortunately, it was one of those days. Reviewing his calendar mentally, he could recall appointments at 11 and at 1230. House would sleep off the morphine for a couple of hours—was it better to shower and ready himself now—or wait until he'd cleaned House up and gotten him ready?

oOo

In the end, he'd decided to fix himself breakfast, along with a piece of toast for House. Despite the fact that he knew House would be groggy with the morphine, he'd awakened and cajoled him into eating some of it. He'd stripped to his own boxers and helped House get into his wheelchair and rolled him into the bathroom where they each went through their own morning ablutions. Finally, with House and himself showered, dressed and ready—he took the handles of the wheelchair and guided him out to the car. Supporting House as he stood shakily, he helped lower him into the passenger seat and lift his feet into the car. Once he'd shut the door, he threw the wheelchair into the backseat and settled himself in his own seat.  
"Ready?" he asked, and House shook his head.  
"Too bad." Wilson told him, even as he turned the engine over. He backed out of the space and headed for the intersection. Stopped at the light, he examined House, who was slumped in his seat with his eyes closed and his mouth hanging half-open. Obviously, the morphine dose had been more than adequate.  
"House." he called quietly, and put a hand on House's shoulder. He jumped beneath Wilson's touch and started awake. "Stay with me, all right? I don't want to explain your corpse to the girls in the lab. Or to Cuddy."  
"I'm fine." House muttered. He stretched gingerly, moving his arms and left leg as much as he could within the confines of the passenger seat. He rubbed at his face in an effort to wake himself up.  
"Sure you are." Wilson snorted. "Dialysis at ten?"  
"Yeah. Then Cardio. Then TPN."  
"You'll need to start eating more, if you want to get off TPN."  
"I know." House said faintly, and Wilson fell silent as he concentrated on driving. There was little more he could say, really—House knew better than anyone what he needed to do to recover. Though truthfully, he would never really recover. His organomegaly had been resolved, his kidneys, liver and heart would continue to function normally, albeit with some damage. But the muscle they'd removed from his leg would never heal. He'd never walk normally again. He'd never run, never play sports—and, after Stacy's betrayal and then desertion—Wilson expected he would certainly never trust anyone ever again. He'd been lucky that House had agreed to let him help out when he came home. He let his gaze flicker to House again, who still looked more than half-asleep.  
"Still with me?" he asked again.  
"Yeah."  
"How's the pain?"  
"What pain?" House asked, though he shot Wilson a wry smile.  
"Good. It shouldn't dialyze out, right?"  
"No, it'll stay. Thank God for morphine."  
"I haven't seen you wax philosophical since the last time we found some Big Green." Wilson gave him a cheesy smile even as he recalled the way he and House had lolled on the couch and enjoyed some of Princeton's finest. That had been the last time before the infarction that they'd spent any quality time together—parked on the couch for a whole weekend with video games, piles of munchies and a large quantity of beer.  
"Any time you want to pick up some more, be my guest." House shot back.  
"You won't eat, but you'll smoke pot?" he asked incredulously.  
"I'd probably want to eat if I smoked some pot."  
Unable to contradict that logic, Wilson settled for navigating the parking lot and pulling up in front of the main entrance. He retrieved the wheelchair from the back seat and set it up while House shifted his legs out of the car one at a time. Wilson grasped his elbow while House pushed himself up with his good leg. Grunting with exertion, he sank into the wheelchair and breathed through the discomfort while Wilson settled his feet on the leg rests and lay the flannel blanket over him before pushing him inside the sliding glass doors.  
"You want me to take you up there?" Wilson asked, when House seemed to have gotten through the worst of it.  
"No, I got it." House gripped the wheels of the chair defensively, and Wilson raised his hands in defeat. House had been strangely defiant with regard to his ability to get around, and Wilson was prepared to let him manage that himself.  
"Dialysis, cardio, TPN. Done at 2?"  
"Should be."  
"I'll come find you in the TPN lab. Don't rile Gina too much, or she'll add arsenic to your blend." he cautioned, and House smirked. The nutritional therapist had never warmed to House's brand of medicine—they'd tangled over House's style more than once. So far, she'd been professional with him. But Wilson feared that he'd find House lying dead in a chair after a session down there sometime long before he was done receiving nutritional therapy.

oOo

After the pain crisis of the morning and the exertion of propelling himself between three different appointments on two floors, Wilson wasn't surprised that House was asleep when he arrived to pick him up in the TPN lab. What was surprising was that he appeared remarkably unscathed given that a battle of some kind must have taken place.  
"How was he?" Wilson asked quietly. Gina, their resident nutritional therapist, gave him a disarming smile.  
"I have to say, I was pretty happy to hear he'd been discharged. Though you can imagine my response when I found out he'd be in daily for at least the first two weeks as an outpatient."  
Wilson suppressed the urge to roll his eyes—Gina had never liked House—most of PPTH didn't, but that was hardly surprising.  
"He's doing all right?"  
"He admitted to having a breakthrough cycle this morning, and seemed to be in some pain when he came down here. I gave him 2 mL morphine to top him off—luckily, that knocked him out. His electrolytes are within his new norms—about the same as yesterday's." Gina indicated the bags hanging on the IV stand. "We're still correcting his potassium, otherwise, he's receiving a three-in-one at the moment. I would recommend that he have a gallbladder ultrasound sometime this week, so we can see if he's developed any biliary sludge. Given that he's been on it for a couple of months now, he could be at risk."  
"I agree. I'm sure he will, too."  
"He's done." Gina told him quietly, even as she released House from the PICC. "You're a better friend than he deserves, Dr. Wilson."  
"I'm the lucky one." Wilson told her coolly. Gina eyed him for a few moments before she removed the tubing and rolled the machine away. Wilson sank to a kneeling position and squeezed House's arm thoughtfully.  
"House. C'mon. I need your help to get you home."  
House stirred then, pinning Wilson with a hard look that softened after a moment.  
"TPN done?"  
"Yeah. How do you feel?"  
"I'm fine."  
"You should be, with what Gina gave you. Are you ready to go?" Wilson asked lightly, even as he slid a hand under House's elbow and helped him sit up. He tugged the nearby wheelchair close, and slid the leg rests out of the way before rising to his feet and helping House to his. Together, they got him into the chair with a minimum effort and soon they were spinning through the halls and back down into the lobby. From her place near the admitting desk, Cuddy watched and gave a polite nod to Wilson that he returned. He doubted House had noticed, given that he was dozing off again. Wilson slowed their pace for a moment as he paused to consider House's attire—he'd been sure to include his friend's coat and a lap blanket before they'd left that morning, and now there was no sign of it. Given that it was all of twenty degrees outside, he was reluctant to take House outside without it and risk giving him pneumonia or anything that could compromise his recovery.  
"Where's your coat?"  
House snapped awake, looking disgruntled at Wilson's query. He rubbed at his eyes sleepily, before letting them close again. When he answered, his words were slow and halting. He was barely awake.  
"I don't know."  
"House." Wilson sighed, even as he stripped off his own coat and put it over his friend. Halted before the door, he considered parking House and running out to get his car, but really, it wouldn't make too much of a difference. Had it been snowing, it would have been worth it—House couldn't risk standing in snow as he took the few shuffling steps into the car. But given that the lot was dry and clean, he'd be just fine—even considering the temp outside. He hunched his shoulders as he propelled the chair forward—through the sliding doors and out into the cold. Beneath the coat, House was still snoozing and appeared to take no notice of the temperature of the great outdoors. Wilson, on the other hand, could feel the chill through the fabric of his shirt and the bite from the wind on his hands. He freed one hand to unlock the car door with his fob, and parked House's chair next to the passenger side.  
"House. Wake up." he jostled House's shoulder until he woke, blinking sleepily in the parking lot lights. "C'mon. It's cold out here."  
House nodded as Wilson helped him transfer once more from the wheelchair to the car, situating himself and then pulling the door closed. Wilson scooted around to start the car before stowing the chair—cranking the heat before throwing it into gear and cautiously backing out of his space. House was dead to the world, his chin was almost touching his chest and his mouth hung open. He'd probably been in some pain, that was almost a given when you considered House's mangled leg. But Wilson wasn't certain that Gina's prescribed dose of morphine had been given solely because his leg hurt.

oOo

While driving, Wilson mentally reviewed the contents of his cupboards and decided to pull into a nearby Applebees after calling in an order for curbside-to-go. Given that it would take at least half-an-hour for the order to be brought out—Wilson poked House in the shoulder until he woke up again. House grunted in irritation, and smacked his chapped lips together. He grunted slightly when he lifted his sore neck.  
"What?" he mumbled crossly.  
"At least put the seat back." he urged. "You're making my neck hurt just looking at you."  
"Will you just let me sleep in peace?"  
"When we get back to your place, and you've eaten something—yes, I'll let you sleep." Wilson rejoined.  
"Where are we?" House asked, and Wilson felt some of his niggling fear lift. House wasn't as far under as he'd thought.  
"Applebees. I didn't want to leave you in the car while I hit the store. I bought plenty of bland food for you—but I didn't get myself anything."  
House rubbed at his knee—the only part of his still-open leg he could massage without sparking unbearable pain, and Wilson sighed. House had taken to doing that as a prelude to a breakthrough cycle; though he wasn't sure House even knew he was doing it yet.  
"What time was it when Gina topped you off?"  
"Noon, I think."  
"How's the pain?" he asked lightly; though he felt a creeping sense of dread. If House went into spasm now, he'd have to do some speeding to get them either to PPTH or back to the apartment. He hadn't thought to bring any preloaded syringes with.  
"Just sore from all the transfers." House admitted around a yawn. His hand left his knee to rub his eyes again before he reclined the seat slowly. He pulled both arms in beneath Wilson's coat and snuggled into the fabric. "Wake me up when we get back." he ordered tiredly.

oOo

House had roused when Wilson prompted him upon their return to his apartment. Like a sleepwalker, he'd gone through the motions of getting into the wheelchair from the car, and had passively let Wilson push him inside. He'd dutifully allowed Wilson to hand him the Applebees bag, and had even set it in his lap—even if it'd been resting entirely on his left leg. Wilson had pointed the chair toward the hallway with the intent of putting House back to bed, but House had surprised him with a demand to be set up on the couch instead of in the bedroom. Wilson regarded his request as a good sign, and helped him transition one last time from the chair to the couch. He sank slowly into the cushions, and with Wilson's help, swung his legs up. Wilson threw the afghan on the back to him, and House cautiously spread it over his lower body. Wilson had retrieved a couple of plates and a can of Ensure—ignoring House's eyeroll when he set it down on the table. Wilson split his pile of sweet potato fries, and handed House a plate. Wilson was pleasantly surprised when he actually cleaned his plate and sipped at his Ensure long enough to bitch that he wanted a beer. Within twenty minutes, he'd dozed off again—but this time, Wilson let him sleep. He retrieved enough of the pillows from the bedroom to prop House's leg up safely on the couch before leaving him to sleep away the rest of the afternoon. He'd more than earned it.  
With House settled, Wilson turned his attention to the apartment. He quietly cleaned up the kitchen and dumped another load of clothes into the washer. He smoothed the sheets in the bed, and lay out the supplies they'd need to re-dress House's leg later in the evening. Satisfied, Wilson settled into the armchair with his laptop, the TV remote and a stack of House's obscure medical journals to browse. He'd no sooner begun channel surfing when someone knocked on the door. Wilson rose to his feet and peered through the peephole to find a young man and woman in business suits peering back at him expectantly. House wasn't one to usually receive visitors, even when he had been in good health. Wilson wanted to expect a subpoena or some other legality, but House hadn't practiced medicine in the past four months. He should have been in the clear by now—his patients usually didn't wait this long to file a suit. His curiosity awakened, Wilson opened the door.  
"Can I help you?" he asked quietly.  
"Are you Dr. House?"  
"No, I'm Dr. Wilson. James Wilson."  
"Dr. Wilson, my name is Janelle. I work for the Horizon Project. We'd like to speak to Dr. House. We have a position we'd like to offer him."  
Janelle was smiling and Wilson wanted to smile back. But it was difficult to dredge up happiness for House when he couldn't even imagine him walking on a spaceship. Or being anything other than the tired, ill wreck of a man that he had become.  
"Come in, please." Wilson held the door open until they had both stepped inside, then took their coats. They stepped forward, as though they were headed for the living room and Wilson sidled in front of them. "I—you should know that House isn't well, these days. He was just released from the hospital yesterday."  
"We're well aware of Dr. House's condition." Janelle told him calmly. "Which is why we've waited so long to contact him. But the Project team can't wait much longer to make our proposition. We need to speak with him, and we don't have much time."

oOo

If House had been difficult to rouse before, he was even more difficult after he'd been asleep for an hour or so. Wilson had offered their visitors a cup of coffee in the kitchen—in lieu of the couch in the living room. It wasn't ideal, but in the interim, it would do. Sitting on the coffee table, Wilson shook House's shoulder gently until the man groaned in frustration.  
"Go 'way." House mumbled.  
"Need you." Wilson told him.  
"No. You said you'd let me sleep in peace."  
"We have company."  
"What?" House finally opened his eyes and stared at Wilson. "Who?"  
"We're from the Horizon Project." Janelle said, even as she and her male counterpart stepped through the doorway. "May we speak with you?"  
House stared at the two of them for a long moment before nodding his assent. Janelle sank down into the armchair near the couch and the man positioned himself behind her shoulder. Wilson could see the clear plastic of an earpiece and the cord that trailed along the back of his neck and finally pegged him as a bodyguard of some kind.  
"Dr. House, we've been waiting for some time to speak with you. My employers asked me to express their regret over your illness, and their relief that you have recovered enough to be released from the hospital. They sincerely hope that your health will continue to improve, as they've sent me here with an important message. After careful consideration, I have been asked to extend an invitation for you to establish a Diagnostic team on board the Project ship _Orion._"  
"What?" House asked again, as he squirmed on the couch so he could sit more upright. "You mean a team to decide who goes on the starship? Not a chance."  
"No, Dr. House." Janelle corrected gently. "The medical team who will be traveling on the ship itself."  
House could only stare at the representative in silent shock; Wilson smiled despite himself. He'd never seen House at a loss for words before. He supposed if anything would stun him into silence, it would be the news that he had been personally selected to head up a medical team on a starship that would be launched before the annihilation of the human species.  
"You do get that I'll be in my late fifties when you get around to launching this thing, right?" House asked suddenly, and Wilson winced. House was being offered a free pass instead of a death sentence—and it wouldn't due to piss that away before he got in. He prepared to rise to House's defense: the pain meds had worn off, he was tired due to a grueling day of treatment—  
"We understand your age will naturally be further advanced by that time." the project representative said wryly; "However, given your expertise in infectious disease—your reputation for diagnosing disease with unusual presentations—and your skill as a teacher were the deciding factors for our selection committee. To put it bluntly: we need someone of your skill set to teach the next generation of doctors how to identify and treat potential alien diseases on the next planet we inhabit. Despite your current infirmity—" she paused to look at his leg discreetly, and House frowned. " We've conducted a thousand interviews and examined your career from top to bottom. When everyone else had given up, you were the one who insisted there had to be a way. We need you, Dr. House. We need someone like you out there, who won't stop searching for answers. We need every advantage we can get, if we're going to survive as a species."  
Wilson held his breath as House gave a silent huff of laughter. His fingers toyed with the loose tape on his leg as he sunk deep into thought.  
"Dr. House—I need a confirmation from you. Will you accept the position on the _Orion_ or not?"  
"That depends." House leaned forward then, setting his right foot carefully on the floor. He put his hands beneath his thigh and shifted himself around so that he could look the project representative in the eye.  
"Most people just agree to accept a life-saving placement on the _Orion_ to escape being killed when the neutron star destroys our planet. They don't usually start demanding certain conditions be met." Janelle told him flatly.  
"It's not a condition." House reached across and uncharacteristically took Wilson's hand. Touched by this unusual gesture, Wilson remained silent.  
"I want Wilson to come."  
"We only allow immediate families—" she started to say, and House cut her off sharply.  
"Wilson is my family." House told her softly, and Wilson felt tears well unexpectedly in his eyes. "And I won't go, unless he can come with me."  
The representative bit her lip, but her eyes were smiling. "Dr. Wilson has already been cleared to accompany you. While we're hoping none of our passengers will have need of an oncologist, another doctor on the team would certainly be beneficial."  
"I can come?" Wilson asked stupidly, and House squeezed his hand, even as the project representative offered hers..  
"Yes, Dr. Wilson. Welcome to the Horizon project."


End file.
